Larry Bond: Vortex

Bekker met the eyes of the lieutenant commanding his first assault section.

“How’s the black? Still holding up?”

Hans Reebeck was a little keyed up, but kept his voice even.

“Nkume’s unhappy, sir, but I’m afraid my men aren’t too sympathetic.” He forced a grin.

“Just watch the kaffir, Hans. Remember, he knows this country well.”

Reebeck nodded.

Bekker turned to his other officers.

“On your way then, boys. Send them to hell.”

Der Merwe and Heitman saluted sharply and loped back to their units. Bekker and Reebeck followed suit and took their places at the head of the column as it started moving flowing silently up over the crest and down toward the town.

Without any spoken orders, the column split into thirds.

One section of paratroops moved north, toward the police station. Another angled south, slipping quietly into a cornfield. Both were out of sight within minutes, invisible among the shadows.

The rest of the force trotted ahead, spread out into an arrowhead formation with Bekker and a radioman at the point. It was aimed straight at the raid’s primary objective.

The objective-code-named Kudu if it had to be mentioned on the radio-was a two-story concrete building one block off Gawamba’s main street. Its ground floor was occupied by a small, family-owned grocery store. But the top floor was an operations center for guerrillas of the ANC, the African National Congress.

The existence of the Gawamba operations center hadn’t even been suspected by South Africa’s security forces until recently. In fact, they’d first learned of it from Nkume, an ANC guerrilla who’d been captured while trying to run a shipment of arms across the border with Zimbabwe. In return for his freedom, and probably his life, Nkume had spilled his guts about this ANC headquarters inside Zimbabwe.

Bekker scowled. Zimbabwe and the other border states had agreed to prevent the ANC from operating on their soil. The lying bastards. He didn’t care whether the ANC was operating here with or without the connivance of the Zimbabwean government. Blacks were blacks, and none of them could be trusted to keep an agreement or leave well enough alone.

Now they would learn that defying Pretoria meant paying a high price.

Bekker and his troops reached Gawamba’s outskirts and started working their way down a garbage-strewn dirt road, weapons out and ready. Houses lined each side of the narrow street, one-or two-room shacks with rusting metal screens covering their windows. A dog barked once in the distance and the South Africans froze in place. When it was not repeated, they moved on, staying in the shadows as much as possible.

One block to go. Bekker felt his heart speeding up, anticipating action.

His radioman leaned closer and whispered, “Sir, second section sends “Rhino.”

Good. Der Merwe’s men were in position-covering the north end of town, including the road, the rail line, and the police station. He kept moving, with his troops close behind.

Suddenly, they were there.

Bekker and his men found themselves facing the side of the building. a whitewashed wall that had no windows. Nkume’s information was right, so far. The radioman whispered another code word in his ear. Heitman’s third section was in place to the south.

Bekker checked his rifle, took a quick breath, and scanned both sides of the street. No movement, at least not yet.

He gestured, and the team crossed in a rush. Hopefully any observer would not recover from his initial surprise until it was too late and they were all out of view. Once across, his men took up covering positions while

Bekker headed for the rear of the building. Nkume, flanked by his two escorts, followed.

Reebeck met Bekker at the rear and pointed to the back door. It was solid steel, set in a metal frame, and had no lock or handle.

“A little much for a small-town grocery, Kaptein, ” Reebeck observed in a low, hoarse voice.

Bekker nodded abruptly. It was the first direct evidence that this building was more than it seemed.

“Wire it,” he ordered.

While a private laid a rope of plastique around the edge of the door,

Bekker heard a low rustling as the rest of his men readied their weapons.

Sergeant Roost, a short, wiry man with a craggy, oft-broken nose, crouched nearest the entrance and looked as if he couldn’t wait for the chance to go through it. Bekker waved him back and took his place.

The private with the plastique finished working and moved away. Bekker nodded to his radioman. The man spoke into his handset, waited a moment, then gave him a thumbs-up. Everybody was ready. Bekker motioned to the soldier holding the detonator and buried his face in his arm.

An enormous explosion lit the street for a split second, punctuated by a solid clang as the building’s steel door blew inward and landed somewhere inside. Bits of doorframe and concrete flew everywhere.

Bekker felt the concussion rip at his clothing. Even as he held his breath, the blast’s acrid smell filled his nostrils. He dove through the still-smoking opening, followed by half the men of his first assault section.

He found himself in a single, large room. Canned goods from spilled stacks, smashed boxes, and shattered glassware littered the floor. He was expecting, and saw, a stairway leading up. Seconds were precious now.

“Two men to search this floor!” he shouted, and bounded up the stairs.

He took them two at a time and coughed as the exertion forced him to breathe smoke-filled air.

A wooden door blocked the stairs. Without stopping, Bekker fired a long burst into it, then hit the door with his shoulder. Shredded wood gave way and he landed on his side, rifle pointing down the length of the building.

Nobody in sight. He was in what could only be an office, a room crowded with tables and desks. Doors in the opposite wall opened into other rooms and corridors. His mind noted a picture of Marx prominently displayed over a desk in the corner.

Bekker kept moving, rolling for cover behind a desk and making room for the men behind him. He rose to one knee and leveled his weapon just as a black man carrying an AK47 came running into the office. Belcker fired a short burst, heard the man scream, and saw him crumple to the floor.

Sergeant Roost crashed into the room in time to see the kill. He raised an eyebrow at Bekker, who pointed to the open door. Roost nodded and with a single, smooth motion, tore a concussion grenade off his webbing, pulled its pin, and lobbed it through the doorway.

The sergeant dove for cover as his grenade exploded, sending a mind-numbing shock wave pulsing across the room. Both Roost and Bekker were up and running for the open door before the explosion’s echoes faded.

Roost was closer and made it first. Jumping over the dead man in the doorway, he flattened himself against one side while Bekker took the other. Roost took a quick breath, then snapped his head and rifle around the doorjamb. Bekker heard a startled shout from down the corridor-a shout that ended in a low, bubbling moan as the sergeant fired a long, clattering burst.

Bekker leaned out and saw Roost’s target lying twitching in a spreading pool of blood, hit several times by point-blank fire. The dying guerrilla had been caught coming out of the nearer of two other doors opening onto this corridor.

Footsteps sounded behind him. The rest of his men had cleared the stairs.

Keep moving, his mind screamed. Obeying combat-trained instincts, Bekker stepped carefully out into the corridor and covered by Roost, slid slowly along the wall toward the closest door.

He was halfway there when another black leaped out, swinging a rifle around at him. Bekker, close enough to tackle the man, threw himself prone instead.